It's Just Like Falling
by thatonecoolkid
Summary: He hadn't cracked a real smile in what felt like years. He had to do something that would help it all go away. He had to. post Reichenbach johnlock oneshot. Rated T for violence/suicide


**I cried writing this XD  
The summary is horrible, I'm bad at them.  
|Post Reichenbach, and I don't own the characters.**

**Enjoy!**

John Watson's short but unkempt blonde hair blew in the wind as he stood. Images floated through his mind, none really taking form but the image of a man in a long coat, his black mess of curls falling over his eyes as he looked down from the top of a building and said goodbye. He had a phone to his ear, and all John could feel was an overwhelming hopelessness as he thought of what the man's fate was to be. Every time he thought of that moment, and his only real friend, he cried. This time was like every other. The tears streamed down his face, turned cold from the biting wind.

His best friend, his smart-ass, rude, egotistical, sociopathic, clever, brilliant, and loyal best friend had stood right in this place, jumped from this ledge. John's thoughts strayed, the stress making him hear gunshots where there could be none. The pinpricks of his cold tears turned into the lashes of sand on the wind, and the cold turned into heat. He swayed on the ledge, his toes hanging over. He flinched with the phantom pain of a gunshot in his leg and dread in his heart as he thought again of where he was standing.

John pulled out his mobile, and opened up the messaging program. Scrolling through the texts, he read them for the thousandth time. Sherlock, I need to use your card to go to the grocery store. Sherlock, I've left, don't forget to eat. Sherlock, bring home a carton of milk. Sherlock, please come back. Sherlock, stop faking. Sherlock, there's been a double kidnapping, you would love this. Sherlock, please stop. Sherlock, come back, I can't live without you. Sherlock, what am I going to do? Sherlock, please come back. Sherlock, I love you. I love you. I love you, please, just come back. Please. He scrolled through them until they blurred too much, and he shook from the cold and the pain.

He drowned in pain. The pain of remembering his actions on duty in Afghanistan. The pain of coming to London and being utterly alone. The pain of watching people die in front of him if they couldn't reach them quickly enough even with all the cleverness in the world. The pain of watching Sherlock die inside when we thought _the_ woman was dead, and the pain of watching him come alive again when he found she was not. And finally the pain of watching his friend plummet. Jealousy, love, companionship, joy, those were present, but the pain was first and foremost.

John looked back at his phone, and opened up a new message. He typed with trembling hands.

Goodbye, Sherlock.

Slamming his finger on send for the last time, he threw the phone onto the roof behind him.

He looked down at the pavement, judging where he would fall. There was only a couple people passing by below, oblivious to what was going on right over their heads. John spread his arms wide, feeling the air pushing him back, as if the wind could somehow stop him or slow him. He knew it would not, hoped it would not because it would take his last chance to get rid of the pain. John closed his eyes, and laughed for the first time in 2 months, 3 weeks, 4 days, and 8 hours. Leaning forward, he took the first step, and the rest of him followed.

It was just like flying. He even thought he heard a familiar voice calling, but before he could even think, he hit the ground.

"John stop!" Yelled a man, just getting to the top of the roof to see the blonde man laugh and step off. He ran to the edge and looked over, seeing the form crumpled on the empty street. He turned back, his dark coat and blue scarf trailing behind him, curly hair wild in his haste. He disappeared down the steps to the bottom floor and ran out to the pavement.

He pulled the man's torso from the sidewalk, muttering no over and over.

"Please don't be dead. Don't be dead. I had to. I had to do it. I didn't think it would come to this. You were supposed to forget, to get over it, move on. Why couldn't you just move on? Stop. Come back. John please, I...I l-love you. John dammit!" Cried the man, uncharacteristic tears rolling down his face to be pushed away with impatience. He pulled John's body up and rocked back and forth, the onslaught of emotion he'd fought so hard to chase away overwhelming him.

"Well, I must be in heaven, 'cause this is impossible. See, I told you. You'd go to heaven, yup. Unless I'm in hell." came a gasping voice from the body he cradled. Sherlock Holmes looked down, astonished and shook his friend hard.

"John! Oh my god John you aren't dead. Damn you, why did you do that?" said Sherlock, bumbling now with relief. He heard a gasp of pain, and looked to see John's legs twisted and bones poking out. He cut off all the emotions at once to deal with later. Gathering himself up and reveling in his newfound calm and logic, he pulled out his mobile to call an ambulance. He stayed with John, slapping him to keep him from going unconscious, talking to him and telling him he had to leave but he would come back, he couldn't be seen for a while longer, but he wouldn't leave for good. He reassured John that he was really alive, and that John would live too if he would just stay awake for a little longer. Sherlock heard the ambulance's sirens, and kissed John on his wrinkled, feverish forehead, and lowered him to the ground, slipping into the shadows.

When the ambulance had driven off, Sherlock walked back up to the roof and picked up the phone lying there. He put it in his pocket and hummed a tune on his way back down the stairs, without a look backward.


End file.
